


Blue Christmas

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Digital Art, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where  Clint is a former Olympic archer, Phil is an Army Ranger honorably discharged and trying to get home for Christmas. With Chicago socked in by a blizzard, Phil ends up in a coffee shop run by Darcy, Jane, and Natasha, and where he meets Clint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rivulet027](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivulet027/gifts).



> I didn’t intend to do an AU until I made the graphic, and Clint just looked more like a star than a battle-hardened Avenger. So … why not? I hope I hit some of the prompts for "family", Coulson background, first kisses, friends to lovers and slice of life.

[](http://s668.photobucket.com/user/library_rose/media/BlueChristmasc-b_zps90b414b0.jpg.html)

**Blue Christmas**

_Les Trois Demoiselles Cafe_ is an oasis of light and warmth on a somewhat edgy street between the lower East Side and Little Italy. Tonight, the light spills through the windows with their stained-glass insets onto the snow outside, staining the pavement with jewel-bright colors. It’s Christmas Eve and Clint is surprised that the shop is still open. He’s freezing, hungry and not in a hurry to go back to his loft. It’s a nice space, but tonight it looms large and lonely. He could really use a cup of coffee and something to eat. The aroma of coffee and cinnamon greets him as he opens the door. It's enough to make him want to hug the petite brunette barista behind the counter.

"Welcome to Les Trois Demoiselles. What can I make for you? Our beans are locally roasted, and our beverages are hand-crafted. Our pastries are made on the premises by our pastry chef, Darcy." Her eyes are bright and hopeful, as if the shop will fail if he makes the wrong choice.

"Coffee, definitely.

She smiles at him. "Our special of the day is a cinnamon latte with creme brûlée foam and a dark chocolate drizzle."

Clint lifts a brow. "Seriously?"

"All natural flavors, organic low-fat milk, and the drizzle is eighty-five percent dark, free-trade chocolate."

"So, it’s practically health food?"

The brunette, whose name-tag says _Jane_ regards him seriously. "Of course. Science has shown that the flavonoids in chocolate and coffee lower your chances of developing certain cancers, and …" She stops when she sees his quizzical look. Embarrassed, she tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. "Sorry, I’m a chemist and I bring that to the office."

"You’ve sold me on it. I’ll have a piece of the chocolate cinnamon cake to to with it."

"An excellent choice. Darcy recommends that combination."

"Thanks." He watches as she makes his latte with quick expertise. He can tell she’s the sort of person whose mind works at the speed of light, one step ahead of her fingers, which he hopes aren’t going to be singed for her efforts. 

A young woman with riotous curls, truly magnificent cleavage and flour dusting her nose comes through the doors with a tray of cookies, still warm from the oven and seductively aromatic with vanilla, cinnamon and nutmeg. Clint inhales deeply. "Add a couple of those, too." He smiles at the young woman. "You must be the pastry chef?"

"Yeah, that’s me." She grins at him, and then her eyes widen. "Holy shit, you’re 'Hawkeye' Barton! You won the gold medal at the Olympics! Jane — give him those cookies for free if he’ll autograph our wall!"

'Wall?"

"Yeah, over here —" She points to a white wall where there are several autographs. Darcy hands him a purple marker. "Free cookies …" she says with a flirtatious flutter of lashes. Clint can't help but smile back at her, and signs his name followed by his trademark target. 

"So, you follow archery?"

"Please … I follow hot guys." She grins at him. "Your arms are works of art."

Clint laughs, blushes just a bit. "Thank you … I think."

"So, what are you doing out on Christmas Eve? No offense, but you don't look like you're heading out to some big party or anything." 

"Nope. I'm a very boring person. I just gave out prizes to a local archery program for inner-city kids. That was my big celebrity-studded Christmas Eve."

"That's so cool." 

A voice comes from the back, "Darcy! If your gingerbread cookies burn —"

Darcy claps a hand to her forehead. "Gotta go!" She pauses long enough to dimple at him. "Don't be a stranger!"

The doors open. "Cookies, Darcy!" A stunning redhead is standing there, her hands on her hips, looking fondly annoyed. She's dressed in black slacks and a black turtleneck, not accessorized by flour.

"Got 'em, Tasha. Hey, celeb in the house!" She vanishes into the kitchen. The redhead looks at Clint speculatively. "You don't look like a celebrity."

"I'm not, really." 

She frowns at his signature, as if trying to place it, and finally smiles in satisfaction. "Gold medal, right?"

"A while ago," he admits. "I'm not competing anymore." He holds up his left arm. "Blew out my elbow a few years back. I couldn't put in the practice hours, so I retired."

"You were amazing."

He shrugs. "It had to happen eventually." He holds out his hand. "Clint Barton."

"Natasha Romanov, co-owner and manager. You've met Darcy, the pastry chef, and Jane, our magical barista, so now you know the three Demoiselles. I'm keeping you from your coffee, and trust me, you won't want to miss that."

"I'm looking forward to it." On impulse, he adds fifty dollars to his total. "Pay it forward, okay?"

Jane lights up. "That's very kind of you."

"It's Christmas." He thinks back to all the times he'd wished somebody would have fed him, or brought him something hot to eat. He hadn't had the world's greatest childhood. He'd been nothing but a carny act until his archery skills caught the eye of a college recruiter. Even then, archery wasn't like football or baseball. He wasn't the BMOC. Archery paid his tuition, but that was all until he started winning national competitions and earned a spot on the US National team. The endorsements paid enough for him to live on while he trained for the Olympics. The more he won, the more endorsements came in, including some pretty lucrative modeling jobs for archery magazines. Then after the medal, the fashion magazines had come knocking on his door, and they paid even more. He isn't a wasteful man; the ghosts of his impoverished childhood are always at his heels, and the investments he makes allow him to live well, if not luxuriously. A fifty dollar pay it forward act is chump change. He surreptitiously slips another fifty in the tip jar, hiding it under the singles and fives. 

He picks a table by the window, close to the electric fireplace in the corner. Outside, the Christmas lights are cheerful, even the neon signs are softened by the snow drifting down. The latte is _amazing_. Jane must be some kind of chemical genius to have figured out the perfect proportions of coffee, steamed milk, and chocolate. The chocolate cinnamon bread is moist and rich, perfect with the coffee. He can feel all the emotional knots Christmas ties him in relaxing. He's warm, at ease, and he wishes he could stay all night in front of the fireplace.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Phil Coulson feels the cold hard. His chest hurts, his bad knee hurts, every part of him that was ever injured in the line of duty aches. It's his first Christmas out of the service and he's missing sharing the holiday with his company of Rangers even if they are in Afghanistan while he's safe in the United States. His family is in the Midwest. He has a ticket home, but O'Hare and Midway are socked in by a blizzard. The airline had offered a hotel with a vacancy in New Jersey, which is about as appealing as sleeping in the terminal. He took a gamble on finding a hotel off the beaten path. He's slept rough before, how bad could an off-price hotel in the lower East Side be? The problem is, they're booked-up as if they were the Plaza. He isn't sure what his options are at this point. 

Right now, he's freezing and his blood sugar is tanking. If he doesn't eat something, he'll face plant on the street and end up in Bellevue. He sees an oasis of light ahead. _Les Trois Demoiselles_ coffee shop. The thought of warmth and caffeine drives him across the street and into the shop. The aroma that greets him is stunning: Coffee, cinnamon, chocolate, sugar. An electric fireplace puts out heat and Phil wants to lie down in front of it. He needs food first. 

The barista looks at him through a pair of hipster glasses that don't disguise the bright intelligence in her eyes. "What can I get for you, sir?"

"Black coffee."

"If you're hungry, we have some great cream of tomato soup with gruyere croutons."

Phil can feel his mouth watering. The sandwich he had at the airport for lunch was hours ago. The problem is, his cash flow is limited. He had hoped to get some presents of his nieces and nephews. He doesn't have a credit card. With no mailing address, it's hard to convince credit companies that you're not homeless or a deadbeat. The barista notices his hesitation. She leans in and whispers. "It's on the house. A customer gave us fifty dollars to pay it forward, and you're the first person in since it happened, so please, order anything, sir. It's a gift."

It's the first break he's gotten all day, and he feels a little guilty using money since he's not destitute, but she's looking at him with wide, encouraging eyes. "I'll have the soup, and coffee." he hesitates over the pastries. "What do you recommend?"

"The cinnamon bread is excellent. And the snicker-doodles are awesome. Get both."

Phil looks at the man sitting by the fireplace, who made the recommendation. "Thanks." 

"You won't regret it."

He carries his tray to a table close by the fire and takes off his jacket. He's wearing a dark green sweater with leather patches on the shoulders and the Ranger emblem on the sleeve. He's forgotten about the rank insignia, as well. He's proud of his service, but he doesn't want to use it as an excuse. 

He starts on the soup and nearly moans with contentment at the warm, spicy creaminess contrasted with the crunch of the crouton. The coffee is smooth and rich. The heat of the fire eddies through the cozy shop. He finishes the soup, and Jane arrives with more coffee. "How late are you open?" he asks.

"Eleven, though we stop serving at ten-thirty." 

That gives Phil another hour. He sighs and takes a bite of the snicker-doodle. He notices the man sitting at the next table watching him. "Awesome, right?" He's giving Phil a half-smile. 

"Yes, it is. Thanks for the recommendation."

"You're in the Rangers?" The man is looking at him with bright, curious eyes.

Phil sighs. "I was until I met a Taliban with a _tulwar_ and a pissed off attitude. Now, I'm sort of retired until I find somebody willing to hire on a damaged ex-special forces soldier with a bad knee and some massive pulmonary damage."

"Ouch. To think I complain about a measly elbow blow out." He grins at Phil, and Phil suddenly takes notice of him in all the wrong ways. His eyes are about six different shades of blue, gray and amber, his hair is blond and mussed, and under his sweater, there are serious muscles. His lips are … Phil stops thinking right there. He's had years of practice after all, but the man's smile is infectious. "Join me?"

Phil thinks why not? They have an hour yet. He carries his coffee over and sits across from the man. "I'm Major Phil Coulson," he holds out his hand.

"Clint Barton, retired archer."

Phil grins. "I should have recognized you. My guys were watching the Olympics when we were on stand down at Bagram. You were amazing. Made me wish I had an archer on my team."

"I'm not that brave," Clint laughs. "But that's the best compliment I've ever gotten. More coffee?"

"Thanks, I will." As if summoned, Jane appears with a carafe. "Last call, gentlemen."

Clint holds up his hands. "I've reached my limit."

Phil just holds up his cup. "I have a very high tolerance for caffeine, but make it to go. I have to get to Kennedy." 

"Flying out?" Clint asks.

"To Chicago."

"You haven't heard about the blizzard?"

"Yeah, I know, but have you tried to find a hotel room on Christmas Eve in New York? I might as well sleep at the terminal."

"It could be days."

Phil shrugs. "It could. But at least the Taliban won't be shooting at me."

Clint looks at him. "Listen, you know I'm not an ax murder or anything hinky, right?"

"I know you're a guy who uses the word 'hinky'. Who does that?"

Clint laughs, wide and carefree. "Okay, you win. I have a loft about three blocks from here; two bedrooms, two baths. Clean sheets. In the morning, you get a taxi to Kennedy after you confirm your flight."

"You've got to have plans," Phil objects.

"Not really. I don't have family. My friends are with their families. Why else would I be in a coffee shop on Christmas Eve?"

"It's damn fine coffee," Phil says.

Barton just raises a brow. "Well?"

Phil thinks of the alternative. Of being cold and sleep-deprived, and stuck in an airport waiting for a flight that might not take off for two days. Arriving home looking and smelling like a derelict isn't on his agenda. "Thank you. I'll take you up on that offer."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Clint isn't in the habit of inviting strange men into his home, particularly not men who could kill him with their pinky finger. Coulson has that air of resigned competence that makes Clint tick, a dry sense of humor, and a physical package that isn't unattractive, either. Coulson has a nice body, with muscles underneath the thick sweater. His blue eyes are fanned with wrinkles like he's been squinting against the sun, but they give him a kind look without dispelling his intelligence or dangerous edge. Yeah, he's pushing all of Clint's buttons. If only … but meanwhile he needs a place to sleep, and Clint believes in paying it forward, particularly at Christmas.

Phil excuses himself and heads towards the washroom, while Clint takes out his cell phone and tries calling a taxi. No luck, but at least his place is fairly close. He goes up to the counter where Jane is closing the register. "Thank you for being open tonight."

"You're welcome. Just pass the word on to your friends. We can always use the business."

Clint thinks of the meeting he has scheduled with Tony Stark at Stark Industries after the holidays. "I can do that." One word to the media mentioning Tony Stark will send people rushing here. Good for business, but now that he's discovered this place, he doesn't want to lose it. He'll have to come back after Christmas and think about it over coffee and cookies.

Phil joins him at the register. He looks less pale and definitely more awake. "Are you sure about this?" he asks.

"Positive." 

"God rest ye merry, gentlemen," Jane smiles at them. "Happy Christmas from _Les Trois Demoiselles._ We're open late on New Year's Eve, if you happen to be in the neighborhood."

Clint knots his scarf around this throat, and makes sure Coulson's jacket is zipped. His boots are good, and why does he care? Because, he can't help it. At least that's what he tells himself.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

They walk to his place, Phil's steps becoming halting as his knee starts to ache. Clint slows his paces. "Bad knee?"

"Yeah," Phil is a little breathless. "It's all right. Just keep walking."

"Man, I should have gotten a taxi …" 

"No, really, it's all right. How much farther?"

"Another city block."

Phil turns on his Ranger mindset. He can do that easily. He waves Clint's concern aside and pushing the pain away, keeps walking alongside him. It isn't far. They stop in front of what looks to have been an old factory and is now home to a bar on the lower level. He raises a brow. "Convenient?"

Clint laughs. "Sometimes, though I'm usually happy with a beer." He opens the door. Straight ahead is the entrance to the bar. To the left is a second door, to the right, a row of mailboxes. Clint opens the door and holds it for Phil. There is an elevator, thankfully, an old one that opens horizontally. Clint must see Phil's dubious expression.

"Don't worry. It's been refurbished and inspected." 

"Good to know." He lets Clint muscle the door up and steps into the elevator. They get off on the third floor. The elevator opens on to a narrow hall. An inner door is armed with a state of the art keypad which Clint opens with his code. 

Phil steps inside. The lights come on automatically. They must be on a motion sensor; a slow brightening to spare sensitive eyes. The loft space has two levels. The one they enter into is outfitted like a workout room and an indoor archery range. The living level is up a short flight of stairs. Unlike the workout area which is mostly concrete walls and black padded flooring, this level is surprisingly warm and welcoming. The walls are a warm gray with cream accents. The feature wall is a deep, suede-finished purple. There isn't a lot of furniture; a big comfortable couch flanked by industrial style end tables and lamps. A matching coffee table is positioned in front of the couch. Two comfortable recliners complete the seating area. The effect is improbably homey. 

"It's nice," Phil says, surprised by the efficient luxury. 

"Thanks. I've only been here a few months. It feels kind of empty most of the time."

"Especially on Christmas Eve?"

Clint sighs and brushes the snow from his hair. "I haven't exactly decked the halls."

"My folk's house usually looks like the North Pole exploded in the living room." He takes a breath, "Which reminds me, I need to give them a call, and my cell is out of juice."

Clint digs in his pocket. "Knock yourself out. Free long distance plan. Talk as long as you like. I'm gonna make sure the spare room is habitable."

As an excuse to give Phil some privacy it's pretty lame, but appreciated. He takes the phone and calls home. His mother answers."Hi, mom." Phil's throat hurts.

"Phil! Jimmy, it's Phil! Where are you? You can't be at Midway or O'Hare. Aren't they socked in?"

"All flights are cancelled or delayed. I'm still in New York."

"Oh, hon, you're not sleeping at the airport?"

"No, I'm fine. The airline will call if the flights resume. How's the weather there?"

"Dreadful! Even if you were at either of the airports here we couldn't get to you. Sarah is socked in and she's only twenty miles away, but Abby and Dave are here with the kids, and the Thompsons are coming since they can't get out of town, either."

"Sounds like a houseful. Mom, I'll be there for New Years if I have to hike."

"We miss you, Phillip." She sounds all teary. "Your first Christmas home and you can't get here."

"I know. I miss you all, too. You don't have to worry. I'm safe and warm, and staying with a friend. I'm fine."

"I didn't know you had friends in New York."

 _Neither did I._. "Mom, I'm thirty-five years old. I have friends you might not know."

She laughs at that. "Dear, you don't have to remind me of how old I'm getting. Have a Merry Christmas, or at least as much as you can. We'll see you in a few days?"

"Weather permitting. I promise." He hangs up. He takes his own phone out of his jacket and looks at the connection on both phones. He and Barton use the same charger. That makes it easier to ask to borrow it.

"That sucks." Clint is leaning against the kitchen wall, watching him. "I'm sorry you're missing Christmas with your family."

"It's not the first one." He takes a breath, "I just thought this one would be different." 

Clint smiles again. "Well, it's different, that's for sure. Can I get you anything? Hot chocolate, a drink, a charger for your phone?"

"Right now, they all sound good to me. So does a shower."

"The charger is plugged into the outlet by the kitchen counter. There are clean towels in the bathroom, and I put out some track pants and a t-shirt for pajamas. I'll take care of the rest."

Phil heads towards the bathroom and pauses, looking back at Clint. "This is more than I expected."

Clint shrugs. "Hey, man. You were out there fighting while I was playing Robin Hood. The way I see it, I owe you."

"Just … well, thank you." He plugs in his phone and finds the bathroom. It's spotlessly clean, the towels are soft and thick, when he turns on the shower, the water pressure is perfect. He scrubs down, appreciating the feel of soap on his skin and shampoo in his hair. When he's clean, he steps out of the shower and dries off, avoiding looking at the scar on his chest. 

The track pants are a little long, but that's all right and the t-shirt has a Captain America logo. He wonders if that's by accident or some sort of reference to his military status. Either way, it's soft and well-worn, and smells like Barton's soap. The realization is surprisingly intimate. 

The living room is vacant. Phil lowers himself to the couch with a groan. Despite the shower, he still aches. In a few minutes, he'll get up and get his muscle relaxants out of his duffel. Right now, he just wants to sit and revel in the warmth and comfort of Barton's couch. It's amazing. 

He's on the verge of dozing off when Barton emerges from his bedroom. He's changed into track pants and a dark gray, soft-looking henley. It's loose, but still manages to cling to his muscular arms and chest. He looks amazing. 

"Tea? Hot cocoa?" 

"If you have some kind of herbal tea? I've had enough caffeine. I need to wind down."

"I've got just the thing. Put on the TV if you want."

"I've been in-country so long I don't know what there is to watch," Phil says ruefully. "When I was in Walter Reed, I didn't feel like watching anything. They kept showing A-stan on the news. I didn't exactly need to see it."

"I guess not." Clint has been making tea. He pours a fragrant blend into thick white cups. Phil sits at the counter where he has a bowl of sugar and a carton of milk set out. Phil wraps his fingers around the heat and inhales. "Thank you."

"You don't have to keep saying that." Clint's cheeks are flushed. "What I'm doing, it's nothing."

"You don't get it, do you? What you're doing for me is beyond a random act of kindness."

Clint looks uncomfortable with Phil's gratitude. He stands by the tall windows looking out at the soft falling flakes. The windows across the street are strung with lights and there is a tree in one of the windows. 

"You don't have a tree," Phil says softly. 

Clint shrugs. "My neighbors have one. See. I just moved in here a few months ago on the hottest day of the year. Christmas wasn't exactly on the top of my to-do list." He steps away from the window and sits on the couch. "Tell me about Christmas at your place," he says. 

Phil sits next to him, not thinking about Clint's body, or the way his eyelashes glimmer in the light. "I have two sisters and a brother, so Christmas was, and is, pretty chaotic. My mom is a great cook, but she always tried to get us in on the act — baking cookies, rolling out pie crust, baking a whole ham for Christmas dinner. The house smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg, kind of like the coffee shop." He smiles slightly. "On Christmas Eve, we'd decorate our tree and bring our presents down, then we'd have a big spaghetti dinner and go to church for the midnight service. I'm not a religious man, but when I think of that church, and the candles being lit one by one as the choir sang _Silent Night_ it seemed like there was hope coming back into the world." He pauses for a sip of the tea. "When we got back from church, we'd have sweet Christmas bread and hot chocolate, then take a walk around the neighborhood to look at the lights. Most of the neighbors did the same thing, so it was like a big block party. Inevitably, we'd finish up singing off-key carols and heading back inside where mom and dad gave us one small present — usually a book — to take up to bed."

Clint takes a breath. "That is … disgustingly perfect, Coulson."

"Pretty much," Phil laughs. "But it was great. Now with the nieces and nephews, it's the early service with spaghetti after, a wild orgy of gift giving, cookie eating, and Wassail."

"Wassail?"

"A spiced mulled wine for adults and cider for the kids. Mom and Dad go to bed, and the sibs sit around talking after the kids finally wear themselves out and go to bed. There's always more presents the next day." 

"Still disgusting," Clint says. "Not to play the pity card, but I didn't really know what a Christmas was until I was in college and my teammates and I got together for skiing and snowboarding. That was one Christmas. After that one, I was either overseas training, or on my own. I've celebrated Christmas in a lot of places, but never at a place I call home."

"So, nobody special in your life?"

"No." He takes a deep breath. "Umm … I broke up with a guy six months ago and there hasn't been anybody since."

Phil is gobsmacked for a few seconds, then he laughs. "You're gay?"

"Purple _is_ my favorite color. And if that freaks you out I still hope you'll stay, but I'd understand if you wanted to leave. I could drive you." He seems poised to make a move towards a set of keys on the end table. He doesn't take his eyes off Phil. 

"DADT was a real bitch," Phil says. He watches as comprehension dawns. 

Barton's eyes open wide."Seriously?"

"I was offered a desk job, but I was too damn tired of not living my life."

Clint sighs and leans his head against the back of the couch. "I know what that's like." 

Phil sets his cup down now that it has cooled and the tea is nothing but dregs. He's about to say something, when his phone rings. He gets up and snatches it from the counter. "Yes, speaking. At 8am? Yes, definitely. I'll be there." He looks at Clint. "My flight is scheduled to leave at ten tomorrow. I have to be at Kennedy by eight."

"That's great. You'll get to have Christmas with your family."

"I can't thank you enough for tonight, but I guess I'd better try to get some sleep."

"It's midnight," Clint says. "Merry Christmas, Phil."

"Merry Christmas, Clint." He holds out his hand.

"Aw, hell." Clint gives Coulson a hug. "Have a good one." 

Phil hugs back, brief and hard, but filled with emotion. "This could be the best one I've had in a very long time," he pauses for a breath. "So … What are you doing New Year's Eve?"

"Doing? As in a date? Be — before you ask me out — if that's what you're doing — and if you're not, that's cool — I mean I — I don't know … why the fuck you'd ask me out — unless it's some weird sort of grati —"

Phil can't help it, he grabs Clint by the shoulders and kisses him, just to keep him from hyperventilating. Bad idea, as now he's about to hyperventilate because Clint is suddenly kissing him back. It's good, damn, it's _good_ ; heat and sweetness and the hard press of their bodies. They break off at the same time and Clint nearly leaps backwards. 

"Aw, fuck …" he wipes his hand across his forehead, his hair sticking up at odd angles, and looking like a deer in the headlights. "I was about to say, I don't have the greatest track record with relationships, so if you're smart and I think you're a lot smarter than I am, then — I mean, just … fuck… stop it right now." His eyes are wide and blue. Phil can see the frantic beat of the pulse in his throat.

Being in the Rangers has taught Phil a lot about strategic retreats. Sometimes you just have to step back and look at the situation from a different direction. He watchs and waits for the panic to recede. When Barton's shoulders relax, he continues."Let's go back to my question. What are you doing New Year's Eve? Let's say I'm just asking out of interest. Trust me, gratitude has nothing to do with it."

Barton looks like he's gathering his thoughts to come up with an answer that isn't total gibberish. "Umm, probably going to a party at the archery center, but the kids can't stay out until midnight, so after we drink in the new year with sparkling grape juice, I'll probably head over to _Les Trois Demoiselles_ for coffee and a celebratory pastry." 

"If by chance, let's say, I should wander in, could I join you?" 

"Sure, I'd welcome the company." He smiles and looks adorably shy. "Maybe after coffee we could come back here and crack open a bottle of champagne while we watch the ball drop?" 

"And if I kissed you at midnight?" Phil asks cautiously. 

"I don't think I'd have a panic attack." This time Clint steps into Phil's space and rests his hands on his hips. "Maybe we can test that out." He tilts his head at just the right angle. His lips brush Phil's, feather-soft and gentle. 

"Nice," Phil says softly against his mouth. "No panic attacks?" 

"Not a flutter." Clint runs a knuckle down Phil's cheek. "You should get some sleep." 

"I should." He starts back towards the bedroom, then he pauses, "I think this was a great Christmas Eve." 

Clint's smile is wide and warm. "Me, too." 

"I have high hopes for the New Year." 

Clint blushes and waves him to bed. His blue Christmas is unexpectedly warm and filled with light and hope. It is the best present he's never expected. 

**The End**  
  
The story continues in [Coffee and Champagne ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1153525?view_adult=true)


End file.
